Triad of Sociopathy
by Hannibal Lecter7878781
Summary: Sometimes monsters are just born. Rated T for graphic violence and dark themes.


Just a dark little piece I thought up. I guess with all the fluff I write, evil is simply hounding to escape (Ha, ha). Really, this idea just popped into my head after watching law and order and because of the reference to the Triad of Sociopathy, I thought of Moriarty naturally. This is a different kind of piece for me, so please pardon any American-isms, my lingo may not quite be correct on everything.

Stephen King and crime shows are the inspiration to the horrific-ness that happens. I guess it's not that extreme, but its dark for me.

Ye been warned.

X)(X

Sometimes children are just born monsters, no explainable reason at all for why they turn into what they do.

James Moriarty was born to a single mother, who worked two jobs to support her baby boy. Although the long hours kept her for most of the day, it never stopped her from assuring she was home to tuck her little boy in, read him a bedtime story, and give him a kiss.

"I love you James." She would tell him as she brushed his hair away from his face.

Little James would always smile sleepily up at his mother, "I love you too, mommy."

Their life wasn't perfect, but it was a quiet and pleasant one. She never raised a hand, hardly ever raised her voice, and gave James all the kisses and hugs a good mother always does.

Sometimes monsters are just born.

X)(X

James stared up at the beautiful painting, eyes aglow with wonder and awe. It was his mother's favorite possession, her prized token that made the crumby one bedroom flat they lived in more like a home to her.

James adored it too, loved to sit and look at the little white fence bordering the ivy covered cottage, liked to imagine if he looked out his own window, he would see the flowers and trees just like in the painting.

He loved the painting, but he also knew how to make it better.

James found the matches in the kitchen drawer, and had little trouble getting the wooden frame edges of the painting to light up. It was very old and dry after all.

And soon the flames went dancing up the edges, slowly burning towards the middle of the painting, charring it to cinders in their wake.

James was mystified; the painting had never been this beautiful before. It was gorgeous now, alive and all consuming, he was so entranced that he didn't even feel the match as it burned down to the end and set the tips of his fingers on fire, quickly extinguishing but leaving the flesh badly burned and blistered.

His mother must have run in at some point, most likely smelling the smoke. She screeched, running towards him and snatching him up first, ensuring the safety of her child first like a good mother should. She ran him to the kitchen, setting him down roughly and then hurried toward the cabinet under the sink to snatch the fire extinguisher.

In the end it was hardly needed, the flames had almost gone out with their fuel source eaten away. All that was left was a scorch mark on the wall, marred by yellowing peeled paint that made another frame around the wall where the picture had once hung.

His mother was crying, kneeling on the floor in front of where the picture had been, pulling James into a hug when he wandered back into the living room.

He huffed a bit, squirming around in her embrace to peer over his mothers shoulder at the wall. He was angry she had put out the fire. It had been so pretty.

X)(X

It happened again.

James woke up from his fitful sleep, bed sheets soiled and tangled around his waist. He roared angrily as he shot up from his bed, kicking the sheets off onto the floor violently, and climbed out of his bed.

He was furious, he was a big boy now, there was no reason that this should happen now.

It was those fuckers at school; all there fault this kept happening. The constant teasing and bullying was disturbing him in his subconscious sleep, even if he felt only apathy while awake.

James howled furiously, stomping about his room and shoving things to the floor in a fit of rage. His pocket knife joined the clutter now strewn about the floor, and he grabbed for it viciously, flipping it open and taking it to his sheets and mattress, stabbing it and imagining it was those bastards in the school yard, so enraged and frenzied he had no time to think about the fact he was also stabbing his imaginary self.

"James," A weak voice came from the door way, and he spun around with a growl.

"Get out of here!" He roared, resisting the urge to throw the knife at his mother.

His mother ignored him and rushed in, grabbing for his arm holding the knife. "Oh baby your bleeding!"

So he was, the blade had slipped in his grasp and sliced his palm a great deal. He watched the blood trickle and drip off of his palm, mesmerized until his mother began to swipe at the blood with a piece of the ripped sheet.

He shoved her away, and she tripped over her feet, stumbling and falling to the floor. The rage was back, and as James stared at his mother with the knife still in his hand he had to physically force himself not to rush forward and kill her. It was her fault as much as the kids, and at this moment he hated her so passionately he could actually picture himself walking over and grabbing a fistful of her hair to force her head back to slice her throat.

"James," She croaked softly, and he blinked himself back to reality.

He stood starring at his fallen mother, glancing to the shredded bed and sheets, to his bleeding palm, back to his mother. James dropped the knife and offered her a charming smile.

"I'm sorry mommy." He quipped stepping towards her.

She flinched, almost causing the rage to come back to him, but instead he took a calming breath and walked over to her.

"You shouldn't have come in here. I told you to stay out." He dropped to his knees and smiled at her insincerely while she nodded back dumbly.

His smile widened at the terror in her eyes, the terror he had caused, and he stuck his arms out like any child expectant of a hug would.

Hesitantly, she moved forward and took her little boy into her shaking arms. James smiled wickedly as he patted her back as she shook like a leaf.

They sat there a long time, her to afraid to move, him watching the blood still trickle out of his palm over her shoulder. The look in her son's eyes had frightened her very badly, and not for the first time she wondered where she had went wrong.

X)(X

His neighbor was a lovely elderly woman, who always offered him fresh scones and tea after school if his mother was still out at her job. He loved to sit and snack happily on the treats, content with petting her orange tabby that would purr contentedly in his lap.

He loved the cat most of all, it was a beautiful creature after all. So lazy and content, trusting more than most cats usually are. Its demeanor was calm, trusting, and thus everyday regardless if his neighbor had treats for him or not, the cat would race towards him and sway happily between his legs at the mouth of the alley, mowing with eagerness to be pet.

James was more than happy to oblige, sitting with the cat for hours in the alley way, just the two of them. He never would have hurt the cat, it intrigued him to much, the way it would occasionally bring him dead rodents and birds, savage nature surfacing to reveal the predatory nature underneath. Just to watch the small animal lay in wait quietly, stalking and lurking, like a tiger hunting its prey in the jungle, it was exhilarating.

Then one day he arrived home from school, hurrying to the alleyway to greet his only true friend with a smile on his face. The smile fell, as did his stomach, as he stopped at the alleyways mouth, staring at the stray and mangy dog hunching and gnawing on something red and orange and furry.

It was the tabby; the mangy mutt had attacked and killed the poor thing, and was now feasting on its corpse, blood coating its snout.

James moved forward on numb legs, ignoring the warning growls of the dog for disturbing its meal. The dog snapped at him, and James did not recoil, instead of feeling fear he felt rage. He kicked the mutt, which let out a piercing howl of pain and tried to back away from the boy. James simply kicked it again, over and over until it stopped trying to flee. When it simply lay on the ground, mouth now coated with more than the cats blood, he stomped on the thing, cracking the dog's ribs with a satisfying crunch each time his foot came down.

James paused, panting with rage. He stared down at the bleeding and dying animal, whimpering and panting itself, and he gave a small smile. James felt peaceful again, righting the wrong this creature had caused, a life for a life.

He frowned slightly, the feeling suddenly dampening a bit. This was too easy, glancing back at the poor tabby's body he felt the anger build up again. The cat had suffered, his friend, this mutt needed to suffer too.

James produced a pocket knife and flipped it open, kneeling over the injured animal. He traced the blade across the dog's muzzle gently, not exactly knowing where to begin and how to start. He wondered what it would feel like, digging into the flesh with the small three inch blade.

Curiosity needed to be sated; James slowly placed his knife against the dog's throat, pushing ever so slightly. Breaking skin, the dog gave another howl of pain, James smiled.

That did it, he began stabbing the animal, relishing of the feeling of how easily the knife broke the pelt of the mutt, muzzle, chest, legs, saving the eyes for last. James found it extremely interesting how they popped and oozed just like grapes, blood and retinal fluid slimming out slowly.

The dog was dead by now, but James still knelt over the thing for a long time, fascinated by what he had done. In all, it had been too quick for his liking, the dog lasting not nearly long enough to really enjoy and serve out a just punishment.

Standing, he stared down at the dog, expressionless. He had never really liked dogs, they were slobbery, noisy, and stupid creatures. Glancing back at the tabby's dead body, his feelings were justified.

Not feeling any pity for the stray, James walked back to where the tabby lay, and bent down to pet the bloody fur for the last time. He considered telling his neighbor what had transpired, but glancing back at the dog, he supposed he shouldn't. People might disapprove of his version of vengeance, so emotional over such pathetic animals.

James sighed and stood, heading out of the alley way toward his apartment building, to wash the blood off his hands.

X)(X

Like I said, perhaps not that dark but dark for me. Just a thought on how little Jimmy grew up to be the sociopath/psychopath we love him as.

Not really animal torture in the third blip I suppose, but being able to draw out the killing of an animal of any kind is really what I think the triad refers to. Normal people generally can't kill an animal, especially not like that, under any circumstances. Yet I digress, hope this wasn't _too_ disturbing.


End file.
